Trouble in Paradise

 I think we’ve committed a tapu, or taunted a Tiki, because in a scene straight out of the Brady Bunch (season 4 episodes 1-3), things aren’t going so well for us or our friends on Whatcha Gonna Do.

Good news first—we have a shipyard in Papeete which started construction on our replacement rudder today. The first French Polynesian quote we got was for over $6000, so the new quote of less than 4k seems almost reasonable, especially because a more affordable 3k rudder from Canada would cost over 2k to get shipped here. Unless we don’t mind waiting 6-8 weeks—in which case the shipping drops to $1200. Being rudderless in paradise isn’t all it’s cracked up to be—especially because we would like to move on at some point.

Which brings us to our next issue—the outboard. It’s been acting a bit moody since we arrived and the day after apparently offending Tiki in the jungle Evan pulled it apart and discovered the little fuel pump was shot. So he tried to fix it and now it doesn’t work at all. Do you know how hard it is to get a fuel pump for an outboard in Nuku Hiva?

See above.

Currently we’re sort of regretting just how far we are anchored from the dingy dock.

But we’re not regretting our choice of anchor spots nearly as much as WGD. Because it seems our run of bad luck jumped ship and landed first in their engine compartment (their engine and generator failed to start yesterday—the second day they planned to set out on a bit of an explore around the other islands…) And today its moved on to their ground tackle.

Michael (with a little help from Ev) managed to get his engine and generator running yesterday. But when they made their third attempt to leave today (attempt #1 was rained out, the same rain which fell heavily when we were at church and that we forgot to shut the hatches against…) their anchor wasn’t coming up very easily, then the rode sheered inside the windlass and they lost all their chain and their anchor.

So they set a stern anchor and arranged to have someone dive through the murk, muck and sharks(!) for it. But so far neither the diver, nor their efforts to grapple for it has yielded an anchor. And it now seems that the stern anchor is hooked up as well.

Which brings us to Tiki. 

 In the Marquesas Tiki is recognized as the wise and potent ancestor of the human race. He’s usually portrayed as a squat, heavy figure with a big head, large round eyes, a flat nose and a straight-line mouth. Some myths say he is the offspring of Papa-'una and Papa-'a'o and some say he is Papa, himself. But either way he’s a powerful deity who was the recipient of many a bloody sacrifice and it’s tapu (taboo) to mess with him (or touch him, or move him…).

Honestly—I really thought we were being respectful and if any of us bothered Tiki during our jungle meanderings it was accidental. But I’ll apologise anyway—I’m sorry, Tiki.

Now give the anchor back.

Fix, Pray, Sail

Leaving seems to happen in slow stages. There’s the getting ready, the goodbyes and then the sinking in.
The getting ready and the goodbyes were almost the easy parts. Getting ready took focus and dogged determination, but then it was done. And the goodbyes, because we’ve done it before, we know those are temporary.

No, the hard part is the sinking in: The slow realization that we’ve arrived in our life, that this isn’t a one or two year voyage with a predictable conclusion, but a capricious journey that could take us anywhere. I’ve been slow to get to the acceptance part. The trip down the coast pretty much sucked, in many respects. We set off with that smug feeling of knowing exactly what we were getting into and were proved wrong.

It’s hard to be terrified.
It’s hard to have stuff break and wonder if we did something wrong or simply had bad luck.
It’s hard to wonder if we made a huge mistake giving up our home.
It’s hard to hear Maia say she’s lonely.
It’s hard to know there really is no easy way to turn back.

But then there are always those next moments. The quiet contemplative ones that make up everyone’s cruising fantasy--watching the moonrise over a calm anchorage, exploring the beach, sailing in perfect conditions and spending time with good friends, old or new, in beautiful places.

Sarah has been sailing with us twice. When she arrived in Newport Beach before Christmas we had spent almost three weeks just hanging out fixing stuff--happy to stay put. But then the three of us were tentatively ready to go sailing again and she was there to help us along.

We’re not religious but, as I’ve mentioned before, when it comes to setting out on a big ocean in a small boat I’ll take all the help I can get. So Sarah, who’s recently back from Israel, brought help. With a small prayer, she affixed a Mezuzah to the door (we figured it would be okay to put it on the inside seems how the outside would be kind of exposed.) Then for good measure she brought a Hamsa, which is supposed ward off the evil eye and bring us good luck, as well as a very special t-shirt for Maia.

And luck seems to be with us – or at least the evil eye has gone elsewhere for a while. San Diego has been good to us, fellow cruisers (but total strangers), Rick and Sue from Panacea responded to Evan’s online plea for technical help with our Pactor modem and drove out to our marina to trouble shoot the modem, then spent the afternoon driving us around so we could stock up on things for Mexico (we’re filling the lockers with specialty items--appetizer foods, favourite treats, wines, hard cheeses rather than staples). Maia is meeting new friends and is loving her home-based pen pals. I am managing to find some balance in the working while traveling lifestyle. The sun is shining. The boat is in good shape. We’re almost ready to head south again.

We’re out here doing it.

Damn Bananas!

Maia asked me not to buy them.

“When exactly are we leaving?” She asked as she eyed the bunch in my hand. I assured her we would finish the bananas before pulling up anchor. After all, everyone knows that bananas are bad luck on a boat.

We’d been waiting for the right weather window. And when it came on Friday the 13^th, we stayed put. We’re not superstitious people, but why invite trouble?

So we headed out at first light on Saturday morning; out through the sloppy swell that seems to live at the mouth of every harbour. The cat was sick, I was green, Maia stared intently at the horizon and Evan looked grim – it was a typical start to a passage.

The sail south was exuberant. The sky was clear and bright, the wind was in the 15-25 range and seas were hitting 10 ft. We were occasionally clocking 12 knots as we leapt from wave to wave. Even though queasy I still had the urge to cheer, which I did, silently, in my head, while slumped at the settee. Evan and Maia looked like they might have been silently cheering too. I’m not sure where the cat had crawled, but he was probably not cheering.

We kept on like this. For hour after hour the wind would propel us up a wave then the swell would catch us with a bang and hurl us down the breaking crest. It was loud, rough, unsettling and exciting. The sort of thing you try to convince yourself you’re enjoying because you’re sure you should be, but it’s all a bit too dramatic.

Slowly the wind eased. Not all at once – but with a rise and a fall. In the dark night the wave crash and the surfing sensation became less predictable and our motion felt less like hurtling forward and more like wallowing side to side. The speed on the GPS dropped to 3 knots and at midnight we decided to motor.

At 3am I was off watch and asleep. I woke when something hit my hull, just under my shoulder. I jumped out of bed when something went bang at the stern. I joined Evan in the cockpit and we stared at our rudder.

Our rudders are designed to kick-up when we hit something. A concept that is great in theory, but often annoying in practice. Once the rudder is clear of debris you carefully lower it back into position and tension it with a rope. But this time the rope had snapped. The rudder was swinging freely behind us, and because the rudders are linked together, it was impossible to steer.

I think I’ve mentioned that things always go wrong at 3am, on moonless nights, in sloppy conditions. Our rudder would have been simple to fix in a calm harbour. Ev would have tied a new rope in place and tensioned it. But when waves are lifting your stern, hurling it aside and burying it in cold foam, crouching on the lowest step, reaching into a tiny crevice that is often submerged in deep swell, while a heavy rudder tries to crush your arm, as you attempt to tie a one-handed knot – well, it’s hard.

I felt sick and helpless as I watched Evan get battered and buried by the phosphorescent waves, under a silky starlit night, where Orion glowed more brilliantly than I’d even seen. As I tried to help, and tried not to throw-up, I wished we were somewhere else, anywhere else. But I also knew life on the ocean is like that: moments of unbearable beauty and utter shittyness all mixed up in a way that you can’t divide them apart.

I felt oddly calm – knowing we weren’t in danger - that if this fix didn’t work another would.

We had options.

Evan worked his way through options 1-4 as methodically as you can when you’re clinging to the back of a boat that’s trying to hurtle you into a cold black ocean. After an hour, the rudder was secure enough that we could steer. We crawled back inside. Evan changed into dry clothes and we both sat silently on the settee for a while - uncertain what to feel.

That fix lasted until 8am, when the temporary rope broke and Evan got to do it all again, in daylight.

 Maia noticed the bananas as we arrived at Morro Bay. She looked at me accusingly as she pointed at them. I wanted to tell her we can’t be superstitious, but I couldn’t. I also didn’t throw them away.

They’ll make good banana bread.

Very Superstitious People

Sailors tend to be superstitious people. It's probably because crossing oceans used to be such a risky and uncertain activity, but early sailors seemed to think if they followed a few rules they'd see land again. We, of course, know that it's more about having a wellfound boat and the skills to run the thing that keeps you off the rocks. But we can still rattle off a few beliefs we've heard through the years:

• it's good luck to smash a bottle of champagne against the boat just before launching
  
• black cats on board are good luck (we'll limit this to one black cat)
  
• it's good luck to step aboard using the right foot first
• a bare breasted woman on the bow can calm a savage sea
• it's unlucky to name the boat with a word ending in "a"
• it's bad luck to change the name of a boat without a renaming ceremony
  
• it's bad luck to sail on a Friday
• the word "drown" can never be spoken at sea or it may summon up the actual event
• Seabirds are thought to carry the souls of dead sailors
• Whistling, cutting nails and trimming beards at sea will cause storms
• Banana's are bad luck to have on a boat
  

Most of our sailing friends claim they don't believe these things. Heck, we claim not to believe them. But we did have a proper renaming ceremony aboard Ceilydh to get rid of a name that ended in an "a", and we painted underwater eyes on the hull on so she can see where she's going, and the only times we set sail on Fridays, well, it's gone badly...

Somewhere along the line I decided rather than fighting superstitions, we'd embrace them. All of them. Which is why if you visit our boat you'd discover we have a Mayan corn god in the galley (to ensure we never go hungry) an Aztec sun god near the door - for happiness and health, a few versions of Yemaya who is known as Queen of the Ocean, a Huichol Indian carved Virgin Mary, a Ganesh (dipped in the river Ganges for extra protection) and a few other assorted gods, goddesses and spiritual items.

Most recently we added a carved raven paddle to the collection. Paddles carved by First Nations people on the North Coast are said to help ensure a boat will always find its way home again. But we got the paddle because it's a beautiful piece of art. Really.